There are heroes in my life. The Interceptors. The Challengers. The Erasers. The Savior. The Lieutenant Commander. Cousin T.
There is overlap. The Lieutenant Commander has acted as an Interceptor. More than one Eraser has been a Challenger. Anyhow, by way of example, here's how they work:
The Interceptors. My last break-up was a tough one. He got a little violent. I know. That's like saying "I'm a little pregnant." He hurled a string of hateful epithets, shoved my shoulders with the flat of his palm, made a growling noise, and then ran off into the night. I knew he had anger issues, but the rage was astonishing, not so much for the violence, but for the fact that his face seemed to change shape, and his eyes glazed over. The enormity of the outburst confirmed one thing: "He's nuts."
New York can be so small. Now and then, I run into him. Over the summer, at a handful of events, he turned up, and stood three feet away from me. It creeped me out. At one of the events, he grabbed on of my girls - from behind, up between her legs, hard (the Christian Slater move), in front of three or four witnesses, and hissed, "I know what you're doing. Give this message to Holly." And then he grabbed harder. She wrestled away from him and found me, tears spilling from her beautiful eyes. She didn't deserve that. No one does.
The Interceptors sensed trouble and went into hover-mode. They created a kind of perimeter. Sometimes one, other times more than one. Men friends who know the whole ugly story. There are three that stand out - and the similarity of their protective behavior amazes me. When they spy him, they touch or take me by the arm and say, "Keep looking at me, Holly. Don't turn around now. Keep looking into my face, and keep the conversation going. When I turn, turn with me." It works.
The Challengers keep me honest. The best of them is the brother-figure I've known since our university days - lawd how we despised each other as undergrads. We became close friends afterward, going on friggin' 25 years now. He'll march into my loft, look at something that needs to be fixed: the door lock, the cats' claws that have grown too long, and he takes over. "Got a screwdriver? Get it. Got nail clippers?" Bang. Done. But not before he berates me about my self-loathing after any break-up, including the last one, the unstable one. "Oh, c'mon. It's not like you were that into him. Snap out of it." I either want to slap him or hug him.
The Lieutenant Commander. Also known as The Master Dipper. He was a United States Navy test pilot. Fighter jets. The real deal. Unfailingly fair, posessed of a wry and quick wit, an insatiable curiosity about the whole world, and a generosity of heart that is, well, fearless. He marshaled an emergency response team that spent three weeks in Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina, and delivered millions of dollars of prescription drugs to those who either stayed or were left behind after the eye of the storm passed over and destroyed everything. I am not making this up. And he might have co-piloted the corporate jet that flew the team south. He not only looks out for me at events, he dances with all of my girls - the shag, baby - and can dip us down to the floor while holding a cocktail flat steady. He can even dip two of us at the same time.
Ladies, call me. Y'all have to pass muster with me before I make any introductions.
Comments